


Sheath

by flinchflower



Series: The 50kinkyways [9]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Leather Kink, M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-24
Updated: 2011-08-24
Packaged: 2017-10-23 00:25:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/244236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flinchflower/pseuds/flinchflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt #8: Leather. Sam’s the sensuous one, and sets Dean up for some pleasure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sheath

**Author's Note:**

> I borrowed the characters originally so I could use them as a writing exercise, to see how close I could get the characterization. Then I was corrupted by porn. And kink. Here’s a side of kink. This is simply for practice, not publication or profit. I’m in the hole by about 30 grand, if you’d like to seize my debt as punishment. AU in that I refuse to admit the death of John Winchester.

The smell of leather is home, Sam thinks. The Impala has black leather seats that exude all of those homelike odors and more, when they are warm from the boy’s bodies, or from sitting and waiting for them in the sun. Her seats smell of Dad and Dean, of Sam himself, though Sam’s not quite sure what his own scent is composed of. There’s a little blood, more oil to her own scent, and she adds something of her own that he can never place, a something that gets hidden by the scent of stale fast-food bags bundled into the back when they don’t have time to clean it out. But once the car is cleaned out – and it does get cleaned out frequently, Dean would never allow otherwise- that scent is back, heady, sleepy, comforting. Sam would never admit it, especially now that he’s so tall, and he really does need to stretch his legs out for a while each day, but he sleeps better in the Impala, head cradled on her smooth leather.

Dean’s in the shower, hopefully relaxing. Sam picks his brother’s jacket up off the floor, cleaning up the room while he has a chance, knowing it will relax Dean to find the room tidy. He listens to be sure the water is still running, and hugs the jacket to him. It has it’s own… bouquet, Sam thinks, remembering some snooty wine tasting thing he got dragged to at Stanford with some classmates. Hints of motor oil. The sharp scent of the soap Dean uses. A definite tang of beer and whiskey. The metallic trace of blood, nearly hidden under the prickly odor of sage, and a memory of cordite. Dean has always smelled of danger, to Sam. Their father’s jacket smells nearly the same, but Dad’s jacket always carries the scent of tobacco, even though he doesn’t smoke, a pleasant pipe tobacco odor that replaces the alcohol that Dean’s always carries, and with the addition of Old Spice.

Sam’s backpack is leather. The leather is worn smooth and shiny in places, and it holds it’s own smells, smells that are home for Sam. The right strap, that still smells a little like Jess, from the time she spilled her perfume - the pack reeked of it for weeks, and he was teased horribly, but still… Sam thinks that he maybe smells like sage himself, because that’s what the scent on the left strap is, he’s never figured out why, though if he pulled the crooked stitching open, he’d find a protection prayer there, inked in Dean’s hand on the inner padding, with the stains that sage oil leaves. For the rest, his pack smells of ink and pine needles – he’s not sure why that scent lingers there, the pine needles, unless it’s all the time they’ve sheltered under pine trees and he’s used the pack as a pillow.

Sam reaches into the pack and pulls out cleaning cloths and a whetstone, one that was a gift from Dean. His big brother always spends forever in the shower, and maybe Sam can have the knives they used on tonight’s hunt cleaned and sharpened by the time Dean emerges from the bathroom. Usually Sam’s trying to hurry him up, but not tonight. He wants something from Dean other than an argument, and he knows that Dean will take the absence of Sam’s irritated knocking, and draw out the time he spends in there even further. Sure enough, the set of silver knives are cleaned, sharpened, and re-dressed with the protective oils, laid out on the cloth for the oil to dry, next to their sheaths. The leather sheaths smell of steel and saddlesoap, blood and protective oils.

A smile sneaks onto his face, and he’s got a pretty good idea of what might put Dean in a better mood. He puts the whetstone away, and pulls out the leather collar and cuffs from the pocket of Dean’s bag. They don’t always get a chance to play, but tonight looks good. He strips, lays out the soft blanket on top of the nasty motel room comforter, and holds the leather for a minute. It warms in his hands, and its own scents drift up to Sam. Passionate odor of sweat, a memory of saddlesoap, hints of aftershave. And the unique spice of, well, Sam and Dean, their scents combined, because even though Dean bitches, one or the other of them winds up getting come on the leather. Hence the saddlesoap. Thoughtfully, he lays out a fresh set of clothing, sets it on the nightstand closest to the bathroom, he’s left his own clothing folded on the other one. He makes sure Dean’s watch and ring are on top, where he’ll see them. He hears the rattle of the towel rack, and hurries to buckle the cuffs and collar on. The rush of hurrying has his cock stiffening, and he reclines on the bed.

The door opens with a rush of steam, and Dean steps out, towel wrapped around himself. And he stops, right there in the doorway. His bright eyes land first on the stack of clothing, topped with his ring, then skim lightly, hungrily, over Sam, and finally to the table and chairs. His gaze lingers longest on the knives, and he steps up to the nightstand, slips on his ring.

“So this is how the land lies,” he says gruffly.

Sam nods silently at his brother, trying to let his eyes speak. Because he isn’t allowed to say a thing with the collar on, unless Dean asks him a direct question, and those brief words were not a question. He makes sure he’s breathing slowly, steadily, and doesn’t let his sight leave his brother.

Dean stands, not quite focusing on anything, and a slow smile grows. It’s a smile Sam would call dangerous, and he shivers as it focuses on him. Dean steps up to the bed, and leans down over Sam, one hand on either side of Sam’s head. The smile softens, and Dean reaches down to capture his brother’s lips with his own, a kiss, deep with knowing, unspoken thanks, the heat of desire. A minute later, and he’s straddling Sam, hands running up and down along the golden torso and limbs, eyes scanning Sam’s scars. Dean presses his body to the warm, inviting length of the one beneath him, and takes another kiss, this one passionate, demanding. His cock rubs up along the length of Sam’s, and he starts a slow, sensuous dance, with his hips, hands and lips. Sam can feel both of them, rock hard and pulsing.

“I think I know what road I’ll take,” says Dean, voice husky. “I know the map pretty well.”


End file.
